


roadkill

by thebeespatella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Truckers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, M/M, Murder, Sex Work, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: “I said, how much?” There’s an accent around the cigarette there. Will can’t place it.“I’m not—“ he starts to say, then stops. Why not. An empty stomach and a handle of whiskey in the passenger seat saywhy not. The cold tucking into his sleeves, making him hunch his shoulders into the wind sayswhy not. “Depends. What do you want?”--Will is mistaken for a prostitute by a mysterious man after a hard day of looking at Roadside Ripper murders.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 234





	roadkill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/gifts).



> Inspired by the inimitable pensee, who always seems to get me to write something gratuitously dirty.

Reno in November is not a forgiving place—bitingly cold, dry, and windy. It’s quickly growing dark, the desert sky sliding under clouds to a muted lavender, fading into the burnt umber of the ragged mountain edges beyond the edge of the highway. 

Too elegant for the roadside. The set-up is elaborate. John Doe is propped up like the crucified Christ, replete with stigmata, hyacinths of all colors woven together and pushed through the holes in his hands and his feet, spilling out of the wound in his side, resplendent. 

“Check the petals for prints,” Jack snaps at Price. 

“You know there won’t be any,” Will says. “Should get the body back to the coroner as soon as we can. We need to know what was taken this time.” 

The whoosh as cars on the other side of the highway brush past them. There are probably some rubberneckers intrigued by the flashing lights, eyes hooked on the strange, sterile gore before them. 

“Well?” Jack says. 

“Give me a minute. I need quiet.” 

“Shut up,” Jack roars behind him. It doesn’t help. 

Will closes his eyes, lets the pendulum swing. 

Neat, precise cuts, only where they need to be. Careful, even with the holes in the hands and the feet—real nails, of course, they are the only ones that’ll do. Not lovingly strung up; clay doesn’t love and doesn’t feel it either—perhaps only in the way that a sculpture’s curves call back to their Maker. The flowers, unbruised even through the extended process of braiding the stems and finding a way to suspend them. No randomness here; although I am dissatisfied with the scene. The backdrop is as magnificent painting as could be spared out here in this desolate, rueful place. Forty days and forty nights, roaming parched and tempted in the desert. But not out of devotion or faith, no, not for me; out of appreciation for the—the physicality. Each petal quivering in the dark. So sure, so sure that I will escape unseen. Leaving my design on the side of the road for the casual, happenstance onlooker. That will have to be enough. 

Will blinks back to now. Sirens and lights flashing against the muted draw of the horizon. As far as the eye can see, dry brush and rocks. “He’s—careful. It’s…art. Definitely the Roadside Ripper.” 

“I could’ve told you that,” Jack says. 

_Then why didn’t you,_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he sucks it back in successfully. That old dog-nosed twitchiness is sitting under his skin again. He’ll have to find a way to get it out. 

“Take him to the coroner,” he says. “Tell them to check for—for embellishments, interesting seam work, the wounds especially. There’s going to be some trace metals there, might give us a lead. And…and tell us what he took. From the body.”

Zeller nods at him with that tolerant look on his face. _Fuck you and your tolerance._ Too many words scrabbling at the sides of his larynx; he has to get out now. 

“I’m gonna—I have to go back to the motel, and think about this. Okay if I take the file?”

“It’s all yours,” Jack says. “Don’t have too much fun out there.” 

He feels his face make a smile, or as close as he can get. “Sure. See you in the morning.” 

He gets into his rental car and snaps the door shut and starts to drive. It isn’t til the windows have blurred with landscape that he realizes he’s going the wrong way, going north on 395 instead of back into downtown Reno, where the musty beds at the La Quinta Inn on Market Street await. It’s fine; he checks the map. He can go through Sparks, maybe pick something up to eat. He remembers to eat in concept; not so much in practice. There’s an In-n-Out waiting for him when he goes far enough east on I-80. 

His hands are shaking. He can feel the trickle of sweat meandering down his neck in a slow roll. Hyacinths. Nails. Real, honest-to-God nails. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He almost brains himself taking off his shirt and flinging it into the backseat. Cracking the window doesn’t do anything except amplify the roar in his ears. The eroding spikes of the endless horizon as he turns off the highway into the milder landscape of featureless concrete buildings and billboards. His undershirt is sticking to his back. He passes the In-n-Out and parks instead outside of Pyramid Discount Liquor, and treats himself to a bottle of Jack. 

“Don’t drink it all at once, now,” the lady behind the counter says with a brittle smile. He knows what he looks like to her, shaking and sweating and fumbling for his wallet. He can’t afford to care. He declines a bag and sets the bottle on the passenger seat. He can’t go back to the motel right now. Dark, and quiet—what had the last therapist said? The one before the last. In for four, hold for seven, release for eight. He needs a place where he can do that. 

He stays on the road with settling blanket of the desert dark until he can turn off at a truck stop. Maybe he can take a walk down by the lake. But the dark is pressing against the joins of his limbs. Hyacinths. Better to stay here. He parks in a well-lit corner, and tosses his glasses onto his shirt in the back seat. Locks the car and steps out to jam his hands in his pockets, drifting to the darker corners of the lot where the trucks are parked. 

The mountains are dark stark shapes, even out here, in meager storelight. Massive, large in an inimitable way. Skyscrapers will never touch this—the thin-air majesty of the rock-faces under the sky, crowned with brushstroke clouds and distant stars. So far from home. He tries to count out his breaths, lungs the last refuge for the desperate. Holding onto his breaths in the face of nature untamed. There’s a strange mortality written into the rocks. We’ll be here long after you’re gone. Long after John Doe crucified on a roadside ceases to matter. But the urgent, pressing now; the nails and the wounds still stitched under his skin in a perfect design. 

In for four, hold for seven—

“How much?”

“What?” He spins around in the dark. There’s a man, leaning against the door of a truck. His hair is greasy and on the longer side, tucked behind his ears with a few wisps escaping to nestle on his forehead. Shoulders filling out a stained flannel shirt, hands casual as he lights a cigarette, sudden ember flame illuminating the shadows of his face: stubbled jaw, high cheekbones, hollowed eyes, a surprisingly plush mouth. 

“I said, how much?” There’s an accent around the cigarette there. Will can’t place it. 

“I’m not—“ he starts to say, then stops. Why not. An empty stomach and a handle of whiskey in the passenger seat say _why not_. The cold tucking into his sleeves, making him hunch his shoulders into the wind says _why not_. “Depends. What do you want?”

The man makes a noise that might be thoughtful on someone else, and reaches out to Will’s face. Will grabs his wrist before he can think about it, gripping too-tight around the surprising warmth. “Ah-ah,” he says. The joke sounds weak to him even as he breathes it out. “No trial runs here, Daddy.” 

The word slips from him so unbidden, so shocking in his mouth, that he lets the man go, gives him back his arm. 

A brief laugh. “Pretty enough that I want to take you ‘round the world, I think.” 

“That’ll be a round hundred, then,” Will says. 

The man shrugs. “Fair. Half now, half after. Hop in.” He stubs the cigarette out and opens the truck cab door. 

It’s better this way. A secondary location would have been—well, the word ‘unsafe’ rings like a mockery now, as Will hitches his leg up to step into the cab. The door clicks shut, and he sits, shifting on the cold leather bench seat. The man sits next to him, and tucks a fifty-dollar bill into his hand. Will blinks at it. He’d forgotten, somehow, that he was supposed to get paid. The man’s face is no more distinct in here, where it smells like cigarette smoke and petroleum—he can still only get impressions from distant neon signs. 

“I want your mouth first.” 

Will crushes the fifty in his fist and puts it into his pocket. A real prostitute would have a better system, probably. The jangle of a belt buckle, those patched and ripped jeans sliding down. He turns to face the sound. That twitchiness in his chest now, beating frantic wings against the cage of his ribs. He licks his lips against it. A different kind of breathing exercise now; the thought floats to the surface, hysterical sea foam. 

The man’s cock is thick and uncut—commensurate with the accent. The train in Will’s mind that won’t stop picking up observation like dirt in the wheels. He’s half-hard already; anticipatory. Will leans down to take the head in his mouth. Clean, soap-skin taste, warm. The man’s broad palm on the back of his head. 

“Take it,” he says, and pushes down. 

The cock slides down easy until it doesn’t, and he chokes when it brushes his throat. The hand doesn’t stop pressing, and he opens his jaw wider, pulling in air through his nose until he can swallow around the shallow thrusting, relax his throat into taking it deep. It’s almost meditative, the soft sucking noise of his throat, the rustle of clothes and movement. He can close his eyes and lean into the feeling—here, now. Present. Pressing his tongue firmly into the shaft, sucking in his cheeks with an obscene slurping noise as spit leaks out of his mouth. 

“Look at me.” 

Will’s eyes snap open to make eye contact. Somehow he can manage it here, with a half-shadowed face. He relaxes into the picture he must make, bent over at the waist, mouth wet around a dick that’s hardening steadily into his throat. There are tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. They aren’t him. They’re part of the image; the picture. Something familiar here, beyond the act, something stirring. He can’t pay attention to it now. 

“Good boy.” The words travel shock-shiver up his spine, and a moan escapes him. “Such a good boy.” He clenches his fist into the fabric of the man’s shirt. “Enough. Show me your hole.” 

Will sits up straight to wrestle with his own fly, pushing his pants and boxers down past his knees as he bends over in the seat on his hands and knees. 

“Pull yourself open for Daddy, go on.” 

The word spears through him like lightning aftermath; all fires in the brush. He pulls his cheeks apart with both hands, pressing down to lay on his chest. Head turned to the side, he can see the dashboard, the glove compartment. The man’s hand appears in his field of vision, the warmth of his body behind, to rummage around in there and emerge, among the detritus of maps and fast-food napkins and flashes of silver—with a bottle of lube and a condom packet. A cold drizzle on his hole; the pad and press of a finger, entering him slowly. He tries to let go. 

“Relax,” the voice behind him murmurs. 

He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. Relax; is that what this is. He pushes his hips back to take more. He’s in it now, but he can end it faster. 

“Eager, are we,” the voice says. More lube, a second finger pushing unerringly into him. He breathes deep. Leather, smoke. Oil and iron. “Eager to get started, or eager for it to be over?”

Will’s answer is lost to the air as the man’s fingers find his prostate. His cock jerks between his legs, his hips thrusting involuntarily now. “More,” he says. 

He receives a sharp slap for his troubles. His skin burns with it, brighter than the flush in his chest, on his face, and still he pushes his hips back. “Please,” he amends. 

“Polite,” the man says, and Will rattles a breathless laugh. 

“Considering the circumstances,” he says. 

“Fate and circumstance,” the man replies, but does not elaborate. He keeps stroking Will deep; toying with him more than is necessary, pressing so that Will’s dick drips onto the seats and yet he finds that he doesn’t want to touch it; not yet. He knows, in that haunted way, that it’s not what the man wants; it’s not what he wants. Beginning to blur together; the stretch of his hole and its hot clutch around fingers alike. 

“Inside,” he says, and turns his head to meet the man’s eyes. A strange maroon light. He licks his lips and lays down his last card. “Inside, Daddy, please.” 

Candlelight flicker in the gloom. Like the cigarette light, the flash of the man’s teeth as he tears open the condom packet and sits up, head brushing the ceiling of the cab, to line himself up and push in. 

Will feels his eyes flutter shut and his mouth opens to let out a breath tinged with voice; a vocalized sigh. The man puts a hand between his shoulder blades, and Will can feel every finger, laid down over the cotton of his shirt and against his spine. The stretch as the man’s cock bottoms out. “Yes,” he says. He says. He’s not sure. “Fuck, so full.” 

“Tight, for a whore,” the man says in his ear. The scruff tickling Will’s ear. A hand sliding under his shirt to pinch at his nipples, and he cries out at the bolt of pleasure, has to rise up to brace a hand against the door window, palm-printing against the glass as the man fucks into him, suddenly relentless, hands roving to grip, nails biting into the flesh of his ass, pinching, petting, as his cock ruts constant, gliding over his prostate on the in-stroke. He feels molten, a ripping hot pan on an open flame, nerves sizzled in the cast-iron. He can feel his chest heaving, wordless sounds falling out of his mouth, uh-uh-uh groans with each thrust. 

“Desperate for it, aren’t you.”

“Yes.” Emphasis. Whatever you need me to be, filling the vessel of myself with this desire, to be here, on my knees for you. Take me apart, make me feel it. Leave a mark, leave a bruise—on the outside. I want to match inside. “You want to watch me? You want to watch me come on your dick?” 

“No spare words of your trade are necessary here,” the man says. 

“Distasteful,” Will mumbles to himself. “But I—I want it. Feels—so good. I want it.” 

A rumbling noise behind him; an avalanche of satisfaction. “Tell me. How does it feel?” 

Will chokes on a laugh. _How does it make you feel?_ “Good,” he says instead. “So good—so full—your hands. And when you fuck me—oh, God, right there—I feel like I’m coming apart—“

“I would like to watch you.”

“Then please, touch my—touch—“ The bleeding edge of shame rip-roaring up high like a wave, cresting in a burn on the back of his neck, his face. 

“Say it. Say it aloud.” 

“Touch my—nipples, Daddy, please.” The words tumble out waterfall-fast. “Like before.” 

The breadth of the man’s chest pooled around his back. He has to support both their weights now, both hands on the glass, as clever fingers tingle their way up his belly, his ribs, to rub slowly, flick and pinch. 

“This is where you want to be touched?” 

“Yes.” This is where you want to touch me. “Oh—I’m so close—” He throws his head back. A futile exercise in reaping more air. “Fuck, harder—“

The bear-trap bite of the man’s fingers pinching both his nipples, hard, at once, and a sudden sharp thrust—Will is coming, all over the bench seat, hips jumping as he sags forward, arms giving out, feeling the shimmering dawnlight pleasure all the way down to his bones. 

The man holds still as Will jerks and whimpers. A moment between him and the glove compartment alone as he comes down. Surprisingly gentle; an enormous amount of self-control. The train steams ahead. Then, he hears himself say: “You want to finish in my mouth?”

“Yes. Kneel.” 

So he slides, boneless, into the cramped footwell, head knocking against the steering wheel before he finds a good position, as the man pulls off the condom to jerk himself off against the wide honey-wet gape of Will’s mouth, his tongue soft and receptive. The head of his cock rubbing against it with the motion of his hand. Will remembers: makes eye contact, leans into where the man is gripping his hair tight. “Please,” he says, and opens himself up. 

With a grunt, the man is coming into his mouth, spilling messily onto his tongue; the bitterness slides down into his throat. He can feel a splash beside his mouth, but lets the man take a deep series of breaths, still looking down at him, cock softening on his tongue. He risks a swallow. The man leans forward to touch Will’s face. He forces himself not to flinch, and the man just pushes the semen on his face back into his mouth with his thumb, where Will gives it a last lingering suck. They are suspended in this moment for a time, until Will has to blink. 

“Let me wipe off my hands,” the man says, “and I’ll give you the rest.” 

“Sure,” Will says, sitting back up on the seat to slide his pants back on. His hole feels sticky pressed against his boxers. Will watches him take a wet wipe from the glove compartment, doesn’t take one himself even when offered. It won’t do a lot for the parts of him that feel dirty now. “Polite,” he observes, hoping it can pass for wry. 

“Considering the circumstances,” the man says. There’s something like a smile on what Will can see of his face. Desert dark is different than city dark. You don’t get used to it. “One should always endeavor for politeness, when possible.” He hands him another fifty, folded into thirds. Will takes it. 

“I’ll be back here in three days,” the man says. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

“Maybe,” Will says. “Until then, Daddy.” And he slips out of the truck door before he can hear a reply. 

The air is bracingly frigid, and he wraps his arms around himself against the cold. He takes the long way around, walking around the back of the truck to note the shipping company and the license plate number, then scurries back to his car to turn the heat all the way up and drag his shirt back on. When he unclenches his fists, finally, there’s an extra twenty folded inside the fifty. 

Well, he thinks. If this catching serial killer gig doesn’t pan out, I wouldn’t starve. The Jack Daniel’s in the passenger seat winks in the light as he pulls out of the parking lot to head to the motel. 

He turns his car down the street, strewn with driftwood from other people’s thoughtlessness. An old newspaper skitters across the road, and he leans into the curve, away from the parking lot. Maybe he _could_ use a burger.

**Author's Note:**

> Some background reading I found absolutely fascinating, about serial killers and long-haul truckers: https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2009-apr-05-me-serialkillers5-story.html


End file.
